Home
by Forest Archer
Summary: For the Company, the road is never safe. When orcs attack during a scouting exploration Kíli waits, alone and injured, for his brother to bring him home.


_(A/N: I'm not really sure where I was going with this - the first sentence came into my head and I just started writing. This can probably be blamed on a recent viewing of BotFA and a need for something that explored the bond between the dwarfs of the line of Durin with a slightly more optimistic ending. It's set in An Unexpected Journey, somewhere between Rivendell and the Misty Mountains.)_

* * *

He wakes and he is alone.

 _He doesn't think he's been unconscious very long. He hopes not, because he knows what that can mean, has seen it in harsh winters and fever outbreaks and the aftermath of battle. Fading breaths and the spectre of death by the bedside of a dwarf who will not wake up._

It is cold, and he must not sleep.

It is hard to tell the hour. The light has the grainy, grey quality of evening, but that does not tell him much; it might have been dusk when the fight began or when it ended, he might have lain for hours without knowing...

His thoughts spiral, disconnected, and he wonders where he is. This doesn't look like the Blue Mountains. He can see the sky. No, that's not why it's different - he is lying beneath unfamiliar trees. He and his brother have explored every inch of the land around those mountains and he does not recognise this place - but more than that, he knows in his heart that he is not home.

 _Of course he's not home he has to get back to Thorin has to tell him has to warn him -_

But it's alright because Fíli will be here soon, and home is where Fíli is, so it's going to be fine.

The voice that tells him not to sleep sounds a lot like Fíli, he realises. It speaks with the same bossy tone with which Fíli would direct their childhood games. But bossy is not the right word, not fair, because it is a long time since Fíli treated him that way; as soon as he was old enough to steal Fíli's wooden sword Kíli was promoted from pest to playmate, and _brother_ started to mean something more.

Not bossy, then, but commanding. It holds the command of a king, but a brother above that - and Kíli listens, because his brother does not command him unless it really, really matters.

He must not sleep, so he thinks. It is quiet here. That is strange, because normally when he lies and stares at a darkening sky there is conversation and laughter or snoring and a crackling fire. But if that's what's normal now, then he's definitely not back in the mountains with Fíli asleep across the room and Ma ready to wake him with warm porridge in the morning.

 _That's because he's with the Company and he thought he could handle it but he was wrong so wrong -_

It is so hard to think, so hard to connect snatches of ideas into thought, to form wisps of memory into concrete recollection. There is a foul smell and he realises that it is blood - blood with a fetid tang that makes him think of decay and rotting things.

Orcs. There are orcs. Or there were orcs. It should make him leap up, urgent and alert, but he cannot feel panic and he thinks this must mean they're all dead. If he is alone and they are all dead then he must have killed them, but he feels no pride in this. He does not really feel anything, and that is strange too, and he wonders if he is nothing but thought, detached and floating. Perhaps he has already died, perhaps that is why he floats.

Fíli's voice screams, a sudden sharp fury that demands to be heard. It rails at him for thinking of death, tells him that he is going to live, that he has no other choice, that his brother will kill him if he dies.

This, Kíli thinks with a certain sensation of superiority, doesn't make any sense at all because he cannot die twice. Another wisp of thought recalls the expression of absolute frustration that such a comment would draw from his big brother. The voice rages on, and there is a moment when confusion blurs into coherence.

 _He can't sleep because it is cold and he is bleeding and if he falls asleep he might never wake up -_

 _He is half-asleep already because he doesn't seem to be feeling the cold any more and he has to feel because if he doesn't feel he might slip away into death without even realising. He is not ready, not ready to be dead or leave his brother or his uncle and has he ever told them that he loves them -_

Kíli feels, and there is pain.

* * *

When Fíli returns to the camp and finds his brother is not there, he knows.

There is no particular logic to it; they went scouting and split up and there is no reason why Kíli should have been the first to return. Fíli cannot explain how he knows, but there is a weight in his heart that tells him something has gone terribly wrong.

The others have finished setting up camp for the night; the pleasant smell wafting from the pot over the large fire tells him that Bombur is cooking tonight. For once, the scent does not entice him. His stomach has turned to stone and he races past Balin's watch and Bilbo's concern to get to his uncle.

Thorin saw him as soon as he entered the clearing and now he stands, setting aside his cup. He seems to know that there is something wrong even before Fíli speaks, almost before he arrived, and it is at times like this that Fíli cannot help himself - he does not see the king they will fight their way across the world with for their kingdom, but rather he sees the uncle who always seems to _know_. The same two facets are so often at war within Fíli too, but for once he feels them come to a sharp and sudden alliance. He is a prince and a nephew, a soldier and a brother, and the duties are no longer rivals because there is nothing, nothing in the world, if there is no Kíli.

"Something's wrong," he says, breathless and urgent, and he sees Thorin looking for a shadow that is not there.

"Where's your brother?"

"We split up to cover more ground," Fíli replies.

Thorin does not voice the disapproval that is in his eyes. He does not need to, because he knows he cannot make Fíli regret this more than he already does. It was Kíli's suggestion but Fíli agreed; they _both_ knew it was reckless but they'd be able to check the area faster, and... There was justification at the time, but none that matters now.

"He's not late, lad, not as you just returned yourself." Dwalin rose beside Thorin, not stern or condemning but patient, ever the teacher, waiting for Fíli to explain himself. But he cannot explain this, cannot explain what is in his soul.

He looks instead to Thorin, and his words are desperate. "I can feel it, uncle. He's in trouble."

There is a moment that lasts seconds or lifetimes in which Thorin stares at him, impassive, uncle or king. But he too is both, inextricably, because he would not leave a single subject behind if he could help it - yet the trust in his eyes is only for family.

Thorin turns to Dwalin and nods, stoops to pick up the sword by his feet. He calls to Nori, Bofur and Óin, tells the rest of the dwarfs and the hobbit to wait where they are, then grips Fíli tightly by the shoulder.

"Lead on."

They retrace the route Fíli took earlier, when he had his brother by his side and life was lighter. Night is stealing on and Thorin hands Fíli a burning torch. After a while trees become a little thinner and he finds the point where his tracks branch one way and Kíli's the other, and he turns the way he should have gone before.

It is about ten minutes later that they find the other tracks. It is Thorin who notices them because Fíli's eyes were fixed on the occasional evidence of his brother's passage; Thorin, walking a few paces away, finds tracks that did not come from a dwarfish boot.

"At arms," he says quietly, and Fíli's sword has leapt into his free hand before he even has time to think. He goes to his uncle and sees the truth in his face, and understands.

Fear writhes, a drake that spews fire into Fíli's chest, but there is a gleam in Thorin's eyes that tells him that his uncle feels the twin of his own panic. They cannot lose themselves to it, and Fíli forces himself to be calm.

"How many?"

"Half a dozen, maybe more."

The silence is deafening as they take it in. Kíli is an excellent warrior. Better with a bow than a sword, to be sure, and Fíli has always been able to best him in a duel, but on a battlefield six orcs would be nothing against him. But in a wood, in the growing dark, too close to shoot and caught alone and unawares...

Reason can hold him only so long. Fíli runs, holding the torch low to the ground to keep sight of the traces of footprints in mud and flattened plants that mark his brother's indelicate passage. He hears the pounding footsteps behind him but doesn't pause, just weaves around trees and races on.

He trips over the first body and would have stumbled but for Thorin's hand on his arm. The others come close, a line bristling with swords and axes, but the orc is dead. In the firelight, the foul face lies vacant, and dark blood covers its torso.

On Thorin's command they spread out a little, never more than two yards from the next torch, and look through the trees. Between them they find another six bodies, orcs felled by slashes to the throat or torso or even decapitation, and despite his mounting fear Fíli cannot help feeling pride in what his brother is capable of. But he should not have had to fight alone. Fíli should have been here.

In the end, he is the one to find his brother, as perhaps he knew he would be. There is a cry, weak and breathy, and Fíli realises that it is his name.

He breaks away from the group, leaping over what he distantly realises is an eighth corpse, and falls down at his brother's side. Kíli is cold and clammy and bleeding but his eyes are open and as soon as Fíli is beside him, Kíli's hands latch onto him with surprising strength.

"It's going to be alright, Kíli, I'm here," he says, but Kíli barely seems to hear.

"I did what you said," he says fervently as Fíli sticks the torch upright in the mud and returns his brother's desperate grip, one hand on his arm and the other seeking the source of the blood.

"What do you mean, brother?" It is there, on his stomach, and by all that is sacred he needs _HELP_ -

He doesn't realise he spoke the word aloud until he feels the rawness of his throat and finds Thorin beside him, hands already pressing on the wound as he bellows for Óin.

Kíli only has eyes for his brother. "I stayed awake," he says, and if Fíli tries he can pretend not to hear the tremor in the words. "You said t' stay awake, an' I did."

Rationally, it shouldn't make any sense, but Fíli thinks he understands, and now that he has found his brother the guilt, terror and pain of the time between is making itself known. Above all is the unchecked, unadulterated fear that he might have found his brother only in time to lose him again and he cannot bear this.

They were supposed to live until they were old, grey-bearded dwarfs with huge families and long histories and even then Fíli was supposed to die first, because he refused to outlive his little brother.

Óin is there, at last, and he wastes no time in beginning to look at the wound. Fíli listens desperately but Óin, ever the impassive healer, sounds the same whether he is dealing with a scratch or a mortal wound. Besides, he has his own duties to attend to.

Kíli is still watching him with clear eyes. They shine, sun-bright, reflecting the flames. He seems content to stare and hold until Óin pours something over the wound and he cries out, a sound that wrenches at Fíli because he would give anything, anything to take that pain away from his brother.

The pain seems to return a clarity to Kíli, though Fíli wishes it could have been bought another way. "Right," he mutters, almost laughing. "Got to keep feeling, like you said. S'good really." He wheezes, grips tighter, and then his voice turns sharp. "Fíli! You have to warn Thorin - about the orcs! There might be more out there, he's got to know-"

"It's alright, Kíli," Thorin says from his other side, and Kíli starts, twisting in a way that makes him gasp and Óin swear.

"Uncle! You're here - the orcs-"

"I know, lad. We're safe. You did well."

The reassurance relaxes him instantly, and Kíli sinks back. Under Óin's instructions, Thorin is pressing a bandage over the wound on Kíli's stomach while the healer checks for other injuries - but with his free hand the King pushes back Kíli's hair and wipes the sweat from his face. The movements are soft and gentle from hands more used to working metal, betraying the affection he so rarely expresses. It is in moments like these, Fíli knows, that his uncle sees the truth - that there is nothing in Erebor worth more than this.

Kíli continues to speak and though Fíli does not always understand he answers, always reassuring and promising, sometimes scolding, but not with any heart. Kíli can hardly be blamed for this, and he put up a fight anyone should be proud of. Through it all, Thorin's hand stays on Kíli's brow long after the sweat has been cleaned away.

Eventually, Óin declares that the wound on his stomach is tended. Kíli has lost blood, but not enough to threaten his life. Infection is a concern but Oin has flushed out the wound, and they will simply have to wait. He has also taken a hit to the head, which has already stopped bleeding; at this, Fíli holds his brother tighter and waits to be told something terrible, but Oin is calm and reassuring.

"The line of Durin have hard heads, laddie. He's concussed, but he kept himself awake, and that's kept off the worst of it. He can rest and warm up when we get him back to the camp. And if that wizard ever comes back, he'll sort the rest of it, I'm sure."

"He will when I'm through with him," Thorin growls. It is not entirely reasonable, since they were the ones to leave Gandalf behind in Rivendell, but Fíli would join his uncle in fighting the wizard if that was what it took.

"So he's going to be alright?" he asks, desperate to hear it again, and Oin smiles as he packs away his supplies.

"Aye, Fíli, he'll be well."

"Told you," Fíli says, relief bubbling over into laughter as he meets his brother's eyes. There is a constant shadow of pain in them now, since awareness returned to him, but they are still shining all the same. "You're going to be alright, brother."

"'Course I am. I've got you."

In a moment, he and Thorin will lift Kíli between them. They will do what they can to keep him comfortable, and they will follow Nori and Oin back to the camp while Dwalin and Bofur guard the rear. They will get him back to the safety of the Company and settle him down by the fire under every blanket Fíli can find, and he will curl up next to his brother. In the morning, while he makes sure Kíli eats a square meal, Fíli will tell the story of the young prince's prowess, of eight orcs slain in the dark, and remind his brother that he is a warrior worthy of their line.

For now, he kneels in the mud and holds his brother. Thorin still has one hand on Kíli's head and raises the other to cover their joined hands where they lie on Kíli's chest. In the dark and cold, with bodies and blood around them, Fíli has his family. Whether they are in the Blue Mountains, Erebor or a nameless wood, they are home.


End file.
